


let the sun shine in

by Glisseo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:40:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glisseo/pseuds/Glisseo
Summary: She smiles up at him. “Well, I couldn’t think what to get you -”“You didn’t have to get me anything,” says Harry, smiling too, recalling his last birthday.“- and then I thought I’d like it if for a day - at least - you could get to just be a teenager, you know?”“I do know,” says Harry. He thinks about it. “I do now, anyway.”





	let the sun shine in

There are a lot of people, in the days and weeks and months that follow the battle, who look at Harry Potter and marvel that he is only seventeen. _Think what he's done_ , they say. _Think what he did for us!_

There are people, too, closer to him, who look at Harry Potter and think how much older than seventeen he seems. Unsurprising, really, given what he's done. But they look at the weariness in his face and the sorrow in his eyes and the almost visible weight bringing his shoulders down and they marvel that he is only seventeen, and they wish that he were allowed to feel it.

The gifts and cards and well-wishes start pouring in a week before his birthday. He requests, tiredly, guiltily, that they are redistributed. He is too busy at the Auror Office to even think about his birthday, and Merlin knows he doesn't expect any of the Weasleys to do anything (though he knows they will). Once or twice, he marvels that he even made it to eighteen. He casts his mind back to a year ago (Lupin and Tonks and Fred were there) and wonders if he thought it likely that he'd live another year. Then he stops, because Lupin and Tonks and Fred probably never even thought that they might not live another year, and yet he is here, and they are not, and the irony is too horrible for words.

It's Neville's birthday the day before, and Aberforth grudgingly grants them private use of the Hog's Head, which is packed to the rafters with members of Dumbledore's Army and teachers from the school and new friends from the Auror Office and Neville's gran, who drinks everyone under the table, even Hagrid. Those left struggling to keep up take pre-arranged Portkeys home - for Harry, it's still the Burrow (it will always be the Burrow, in a way) while he and Ron look for a flat, so he clumsily kisses Ginny goodnight and heads for Bill's old room, trying to pretend he hasn't noticed that Hermione disappears straight into Ron's bedroom, and only dimly cognisant of the fact that it has gone midnight and it is his birthday now.

He awakes late next morning, much later than usual, to the smell of tea and something flowery that turns out to be Ginny, perched on the end of his bed holding two mugs. She waits for him to put his glasses on before passing one to him with a chirpy, "Happy birthday!"

"Thanks," he manages, around a yawn. "Erm - what time is it?"

"Nine, but -"

"Nine! Ginny, I'm meant to be at work -"

"No you're not, not today. Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist," she adds at his frown, "it's -"

"I'm not wearing any knickers," Harry says.

"- it's all sorted. You're having the day off and we're going to have fun."

"Who's we?" Harry asks, and then, slightly hopefully, "what kind of fun?"

Ginny's (probably cheeky) answer is lost by the arrival of Ron and Hermione, laden with bags and, bizarrely, a plastic bucket and spade.

"Aren't you dressed yet?" Ron says. "Buck up, we've got to get a move on. We're taking the bus! Hermione's got all the timetables and everything!"

"Taking the bus where?"

"To the beach!" says Ginny brightly. "Ta-da! We've got a picnic ..."

"We've got to be Muggles, though," Hermione explains. "It's a Muggle place we're going to."

"Yeah, and Dad says Muggles use these to build sandcastles!" says Ron excitedly, brandishing the bucket and spade.

Harry doesn't know what to say. He grins dazedly at his friends, feeling a lot lighter than he has done for a long time.

"I -"

"Come on, chop chop," says Ron briskly. "All you need to do is get dressed, I've packed your swimming trunks -"

"I don't have swimming trunks," says Harry blankly.

"No? Well, I've packed someone's -"

"It was either that or you wearing my swimming costume," says Ginny slyly.

"And we thought the old ladies at the beach could do without heart attacks," Ron finishes, shuddering.

So they go to the beach. It's relatively secluded, or else Hermione has been weaving her magic, because they mostly have the place to themselves for the day, the sea sparkling in the sunshine, the great stretch of sand untouched. They build a sandcastle, which Ron maintains is impressive enough without magic, and at noon they sit down to a picnic prepared by Mrs Weasley, with Butterbeer kept fresh with Cooling Charms, and afterwards, when they're getting too hot sitting in the sun, they run shrieking into the water - it's warmed by the sun, but still cold, and Harry laughs as he dodges Ginny's attempts to splash him. He's spent the last few months very much aware of his survival, so unlikely, but he can't remember when he last felt this alive, or this - this young.

"Thank you," he says to Ginny, in a private moment later on, when the sky is deepening to a watery indigo and Ron and Hermione have gone for a stroll at the other end of the beach. "This was perfect."

She smiles up at him. "Well, I couldn't think what to get you -"

"You didn't have to get me anything," says Harry, smiling too, recalling his last birthday.

"- and then I thought I'd like it if for a day - at least - you could get to just be a teenager, you know?"

"I do know," says Harry. He thinks about it. "I do now, anyway."

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and they both, unconsciously, look out at the horizon: wisps of dusky cloud are trailing across the sky, streaked with rich orange and burnished gold, the sun sinking into the darkening sea.

When they return to the Burrow, the rest of the Weasleys and their friends are waiting in the garden, strung with lanterns, and they pass around glasses of a delicious, fizzy wine produced by Bill and Fleur, and they raise a toast: a silent one, first, to those not there, and then Ginny says:

"To being young," and although there are good-natured groans and protests from the older guests, she and Harry, and Ron and Hermione, share a smile.

They go back to the beach the next year, on his birthday, with Ginny buoyant from her signing with the Harpies, and Hermione fretting about the Ministry; and the next, and the next; with swollen tummies, and then tiny sunhats and competitions to build the best sandcastle ("I'm going to win, James, so I don't know why you're bothering," says Ron loudly). But Harry never forgets the first time, never forgets how Ginny knew exactly what to get him.

"Forty," she murmurs to him, years later, his arm around her once more, the sun setting in the same place - unbelievable, really, that so much could happen, so much time could pass, and the sun would still set as it did over twenty years earlier. "Do you feel it?"

Of course he does. He feels older, some days. But not now, not in this moment.

"I still feel young," he says, truthfully. "And that's you. That's all down to you."

"Well, you know. I couldn't think what to get you ..."


End file.
